Falling
by Khaleesi221B
Summary: Unable to deal with the pain of the loss, John realises that there is only one solution: joining Sherlock. Post-Reichenbach. No slash. Character death, suicide, feels.


_This little idea just popped in my twisted head and would not go away. So, I wrote this story._

_Okay, let me tell you a few things about the characters here._

_John is in a bad state. He's a bloody mess. He's a furry ball of emotion. He's a burrito of sadness. Okay, you get the picture._

_Sherlock now. Don't imagine him like he was in the beginning of The Empty Hearse. I don't want him as a cave man because it doesn't serve the purpose of the story. He was hot like that, but it doesn't work._

_Now, if anyone in the big bad world is interested in__** Mine**__, I have two things to say to you: 1) thank you, 2) I hope I'll post chapter 3 shortly._

_Until then, enjoy this thing and try to excuse any mistakes._

* * *

Drinking had not been an option. He had seen the terrible effect that alcohol had on his sister Harry. Not that he cared about what it would do to him, no. He just did not want to return to Baker Street late one night after drinking (and drinking and drinking...) and have a row with Mrs. Hudson.

So, he had found another solution: drugs. He had found some cocaine in Sherlock's room (he still had no idea how he managed to go in there and search). When the cocaine flowed in his veins, he felt that a part of Sherlock was inside him.

But alas, he had found so little of the drug. Just a small taste of cocaine. Of sweet, although temporary, oblivion.

Of course he could just get some more. He didn't know how, though. He did not seem tough. His lack of knowledge could get him fooled - or even killed. He didn't know which dealers were trustworthy - interesting choice of word -, who had the good stuff. Not that he would afford the good stuff.

There was only one thing that he could do. That he should do. He was not supposed to forget Sherlock Holmes with temporary solutions. Besides, how could he ever forget that man? he had fascinated him from the very first moment. That fateful day. The 29th day of January. His life had begun then. Truly and really. Then.

No, he was not supposed to forget Sherlock Holmes. He was supposed to join him.

* * *

The bourbon had made him more determined and confident. Nothing and no one could change his mind now.

He imagined Sherlock walking around there, preparing for his fall. How had he felt? Had the falling hurt?

John stood at the edge of the roof. It felt like it was the edge of the world. The edge of the world of the living.

And then, he saw Sherlock. He was standing at the edge of the roof as well, next to John. He was looking at him with so much love in his eyes. There seemed to be some sort of glow around him...No, the glow was radiating off of him.

"What do you think you're doing, John?" he asked in his deep voice.

"What I have to do," John replied immediately.

"If you feel obliged to do this, then don't. Don't do something that you don't want to do."

John shook his head. "No, I want to do this. I..." His voice was breaking, and his eyes were wet with unshed tears. "I can't live without you, Sherlock. I have nothing left. What am I supposed to do now that you are...gone? I...I can't...I want to do this."

Sherlock smiled. It was so peaceful, so serene, so comforting and heart-warming. It was the smiled of an angel. "Okay. Take my hand," he said and reached out.

John held his hand and took a deep breath. Sherlock gave his hand a gentle squeeze as if to say that everything was going to be all right.

And then, together, hand in hand, they fell.

* * *

Sherlock opened his eyes. He had only just managed to finally fall asleep, and someone was calling him. Couldn't he have a few moments of peace?

He knew who it was that was tormenting him like this of course. Mycroft. Only he knew this number. He had given the new mobile phone to Sherlock after all.

Sherlock decided to play nice and pick it up. "What do you want, Mycroft?" he asked grumpily.

One heartbeat, two heartbeats. Then Mycroft responded. And the tone of his voice was grave. "Sherlock, I...I don't know how to tell you this..."

Sherlock sat up immediately, fully awake. No funny remarks, no sarcasm. The reply had been neither immediate nor revealing. Mycroft sounded almost sad. Something was wrong. But what could it possibly be? Everything was going according to plan. Hopefully he would be back to London soon. To John.

"It's John," Mycroft carried on. "He...he's gone, Sherlock."

Sherlock said nothing. He did not make a move, not even to breathe. He felt so numb, so empty. Dead.

"He jumped from the roof at St. Bart's. A note was found in his jacket pocket. 'I'm coming, Sherlock'. Brother mine, I am -"

Sherlock hung up and let the phone fall from his hand. He could not breathe. Tears came to him uninvited. He let them fall. He cried...and cried...and cried...

* * *

_Somebody stop me! I keep killing off characters! I'm the new George RR Martin! :P_

_Okay, so, I hope you liked this. Tell me what you think of it, why don't you? I love any form of feedback!_


End file.
